


Dean Winchester and the Sorcerer' Stone

by etoile_etiolee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Transformation, Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cursed Dean, Gen, Metamorphosis, Schmoop, fennec
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoile_etiolee/pseuds/etoile_etiolee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have a little free time between two apocalypses, which allows Sam to burry himself in old case files of the Men of Letters' library. Soon enough, he convinces Dean to go on a hunt to retrieve a mysterious stone which has to power to turn anyone who touches it into an animal. The brothers take all the precautions necessary, but Winchester's luck being what it is... Dean is hit by the stone and has to spend the three following weeks in the form of a fennec. It could be worse, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Winchester and the Sorcerer' Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Disneymagics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disneymagics/gifts).



> Beta work by candygramme
> 
> This is a work of fiction, spn and its characters don't belong to me, I make no profits out of this. This story is my intellectual property.
> 
> There are tons of videos on youtube staring the fennec fox. If you want to understand better what Dean looks and acts like, you can find it easily.

It’s not a case, not really, but Sam knows Dean will agree to go with a little persuasion. Things have been quiet for a while. Spending two weeks in the bunker without one of them being hurt or sick is exceptional. And it usually means something big and nightmarish is about to fall on them. Or not. These days, Sam allows himself to be optimistic –well, less pessimistic is probably the correct term here. 

Dean spends his time fixing minor stuff in the bunker, working on old cars, cooking and reading. He seems to be at peace with himself –as far as being at peace goes when it comes to Dean. Sam hasn’t seen him read much in past years, nothing more than newspapers and monster lore on obscure websites. It had been funny for him the first time he’d seen Dean sitting on the hood of the Impala with a huge book open on his thighs –the _Foundation_ cycle, by Isaac Asimov. Sam had almost made a remark about Dean having probably lost his last issue of Busty Asian Beauties but had changed his mind. Because Dean has been through so much over the few past years, and Sam can see the toll it’s taken on him. He hasn’t changed, from his point of view. They are getting older after all, and they both carry the weight of events that were horrible enough to make anyone crazy.

The point is, they aren’t –crazy that is. They both have enough issues for an entire class of psychologists, and they surely have both approached madness more than once at different times in their life, but here they are, both of them in their thirties, still alive, together and hunting. They have changed –it’s not about becoming a better or worse person. It’s just time that's passed and left its mark. Dean, at thirty-seven years old, has become calmer, quieter. It’s not a bad thing. He opens up more, maybe because he takes more time to think about things. There has always been an edge to Dean, triggered by the desperation of devouring life in each of its aspects, because he’d always known waking up every morning that this could be his last. That was the Dean Sam got to rediscover when they went looking for John: searching for the pleasure in what he could have, like food or sex, as well as what he had to do –the hunt. Dean could kill a Wendigo with the exact same enthusiasm he would eat a cheeseburger. Sometimes, Sam misses that Dean –the pain-in-the-ass brother driving him around, always ready to crack a joke at anything, full of an energy that fed on his same desperation, like a starving kid being offered food and stuffing himself until he’s sick because who knew when the next meal would be. 

If Sam sometimes misses the Dean of their youth, before demons, and death and fate had become part of their life, he loves the older Dean as much, maybe even more. The edges of Dean’s character have softened, just like the muscle of his belly. He’s allowing himself to just take life one day at a time and has left behind the need to play his part: macho, lady’s man, bad-ass hunter, Dean Winchester. He’s still is all those things, but that’s not how he defines himself anymore. With those changes have come the realization that he doesn’t need to hide and pretend for Sam. . Now that Dean isn't so scared to share what’s in his mind with Sam, he often speaks about himself, how he was, and who he’s becoming. Of course, it always help if they're both a little drunk when it comes to making confidences, but Dean doesn’t wait to be wasted before spitting out whatever is going through his mind in a drunken haze. As a matter of fact, Dean doesn’t really get drunk anymore. He’ll stop after two or three beers, sometimes replacing them with a glass of whisky before going to bed. It was whisky, the evening he’d told Sam about how he saw himself. “I always thought that getting older, I would become like Dad. I mean, I’ve lead basically the same existence. Hunting is in my blood, you know? And so many deaths, of so many friends, innocent people. How could I not become Dad? But… I don’t know, man, I feel like the older I get, the more different I become. S’not… I mean I love the guy, there’s a part of me missing since his death, and it’ll never be filled. Still… I don’t hate the fact that I’m different. Being like him –shit, it was all I ever wanted when I was young… But it was… exhausting. I guess what I mean to say is that I’m glad I found my own path. It’s a sick and dark path, but it’s my own. I always had this pressure to be a certain person in your eyes, because that’s what Dad wanted. And now I know it doesn’t matter. To you, I mean. No more secrets, no more pretense, just being me and allowing you to be you. It works between us, right?”

Dean is right, and that is why Sam didn’t made any jokes when he saw him engrossed by a science fiction story. It might seem insignificant, but whenever Dean sheds a layer, it’s a big deal to him. Sam loves his brother too much to destroy this new and fragile confidence that is growing in him, slowly but surely. It’s a long way to go for a man who used to despise himself so much his own life didn’t matter to him.

Besides, Dean occupying himself means Sam can get lost in research without having his brother hanging around, sighing in impatience and letting Sam know how his nerdiness knows no bounds. Two weeks have passed without Sam even noticing. He’s building a new classification system for the library, easier to work with. He doesn’t quite know for whom he’s doing it. Will there be any heir to the two ultimate Men of Letters? Biologically speaking, Sam is sure there won’t, but other hunters could one day be led to or accidentally discover this place. It’s a possibility.

Despite his goal being sorting out books and files, Sam often let his curiosity get the better of him and will stop his task when he finds an interesting file he hasn’t put his hand on before. That’s how he discovers the existence of a cursed object that has been widely studied by the Men of Letters. It’s fascinating. The object in question, a small stone scattered with chips of ruby, about the diameter of a dime, is called the African Shifting Gem. Originated from Mauritania, it is said to be a thousand years old. The sorcerer of a small tribe had transmuted this simple stone into a magic object, transforming anyone who would touch it into an animal for a period of twenty days. The notes from the Men of Letters point out that it was used by the sorcerer to allow him to be close to the gods, which his tribe thought often took the forms of different animals to observe humans. It had been passed from generation to generation, until it had been stolen by an archeologist visiting the region, who hadn’t believe the superstition surrounding the gem. That was the point where the Men of Letters heard about the stone. They had no trouble persuading the man who had taken it to give it to them, after he had spent twenty days in the body of a meerkat. 

The notes about the stone could have ended there, with an indication as to where the object was safely kept, but apparently, the two men of letters responsible of it had other ideas. Jim Anthony and Alexander Croft must have been young and audacious, because the next thirty pages of the report are details of their experiments. Each of them had touched the stone, twice for Anthony, three times for Croft. The animals they changed into were all indigenous to Africa, and the size didn’t seem to play a part: Croft’s last time touching the stone had transformed him into an elephant –which was probably when they had decided it was enough. Sam couldn’t help smiling at the account of their adventures. The stone would only transform one person at the time, since it would merge with the animal, appearing on the forehead, most of the time. Croft and Anthony were very thorough about documenting their time as animals. It seemed that, although they had kept the consciousness of whom they were, the constantly had to fight their animal instinct. The return to their human form always happened on the twentieth day, it was painful, but it didn’t last long. There didn’t seem to be any serious after effect, except some of their animal traits that would linger for a while –nothing they couldn’t control.

Sam reads the file like it’s a novel, a crazy adventure. He can almost see the two men working in the bunker, at the same table he’s sitting now, some seventy years ago. There is even a dramatic fallout. When Magnus’s title had been taken away, he’d left with a lot of objects and precious books, everything he could carry. The African Shifting Gem had been part of that. Most of the objects had ended up in Magnus’s magically hidden house, but some others had been scattered around but impossible to retrieve –Magnus's last mocking act before he had disappeared.

The location of the gem was well known: an abandoned church in a small town called Greenvalley, on the border between Iowa and Illinois. It was built into a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary which was then surrounded by some kind of magic field impossible to pass over, despite all the knowledge the Men of Letters possessed. If it hadn’t been retrieved later by Magnus himself after Abaddon’s massacre, it should still be there.

It is in no way an emergency to find the stone and bringing it to safety. If it’s gone, Sam doubts they could follow a trail that’s been cold for decades. If it’s still there, it can do no harm to people who happen upon it, because of the magic protection circle. If the circle has been broken, and the stone had been used, surely a hunter would have stumbled upon it. But. They don’t have anything better to do, the trip would be a short one and allow Sam and Dean to stretch their legs a little. More importantly, if Sam wants to be honest with himself, he’s kind of excited by the idea of solving one of Magnus’s puzzles. This has always been his favorite part of hunting, the detective part of it, the cerebral acuteness needed to discover the solution. 

That’s how he presents the idea to Dean during dinner, insisting on the potential “fun” of it all. Dean takes a huge bite of his turkey sandwich and chews slowly, frowning. 

“Fun… like that protection trap crazy Magnus used to protect the codex, fun like bleeding to death to open it?” 

It is a strong argument. But Sam is ready. Funny to think that the few prelaw classes he had taken in college are somehow still useful to him from time to time. 

“Okay, I’ll admit that you’re right to be worried.” Seeing Dean lifting his finger to add something, (probably an assessment of the fact that of course, he’s right. He’s always right.) Sam quickly starts talking again. “But I did some research and there have been zero incidents related to the church. Which means, probably, that if people have wandered around, they just couldn’t get to the stone. There were no thoughts of suicide, nothing that dramatic. Greenvalley is your typical American small town, nothing supernatural has disturbed it in the past fifty years.”

“But we don’t know what It’ll do if we break the protection circle.”

“That’s why we’ll have the book of the dead with us.”

Ever since they have retrieved the codex, Sam had studied it with great care. Dean hadn’t even wanted to even get close to it, despite being freed of the Mark, and had warned Sam about it. The book is kept in a safety box, locked by supernatural protection, and Sam is careful not to work for too long on it, one hour at a time, skipping the most horrific spells and concentrating on what might be useful. 

“Listen, Dean,” he goes on, unashamed of using the puppy dog eyes full force. “The spell that was protecting the codex was atrocious, but, face it, the codex was a very dangerous object. I don’t think a stone that turns people into animals has necessitated the same sort of curse. Plus, we’ve been locked in here, doing practically nothing, for two weeks. I need to get out. I need to do something.  
Dean seems to hesitate still, the proof being his unfinished sandwich dropped on his plate. “If I say no, will you go alone?”

No, Sam wouldn’t. He’s learned it’s always better not to be separated from his brother, especially when one of them is hunting –even if it’s an object that hasn’t done any damage recently. He lies, though.

“Yes, it’s… interesting. “I’ve never come across an object possessing that kind of power.”

Dean sighs, and just by the sound he makes, Sam know he’s won. He waits patiently.

“Okay, but on one condition.”

“Yeah?”

“If there is too much of a risk –and I’ll be the one evaluating that, because I’m not head over heels in love with the idea of a magic stone- so… If the risks are too great, according to me, we leave and let the African gem stay where it is.”

“Okay.”

“Another thing.”

“You said one condition.”

“I changed my mind,” Dean declares, not really caring about Sam’ protest. “If we retrieve the stone, I don’t want you to do like those idiot Men of Letters. I won’t be walking around with you as a dog or… I don’t know- a freaking giraffe, for twenty days. Those guys may only have been lucky –who knows what could go wrong.”

And okay, maybe –just maybe- Sam had given a thought about trying out the stone, because reading those reports, he almost felt like he’d been right there with those two enthusiastic men of letters, sharing their excitement and the fantastic time they’d seem to have.

One gruff look from Dean discouraged him from even trying to argue. He nods, lowering his head, an old habit from when he was a child and had to follow not only Dean’s orders but their father’s as well.

The conversation is over by the way Dean rubbed his hand together and pushed his plate away. “Besides,” he says. “I could use the exercise. Go pack. We’ll meet in the garage in half an hour.”

This is so Dean-like, once he settles his mind on something. Luckily, knowing his brother, Sam has already packed all the books and ingredients he could think of for breaking a curse. Now, he only needs to prepare a couple of kale smoothies for the road.

::: :::

“You know,” Dean says, his mouth full of fries, looking at the road stretching in front of them, “I’m getting used to those time-out we have between two apocalypses.”

“It is nice,” Sam agree, wondering for the hundredth time, how Dean manages to talk clearly with his mouth full.

“I mean… We’re travelling to that church, not because people are dying, or the world need saving, but because we have nothing better to do. I’m glad you convinced me, Sammy.”

Sam nods. He won’t ever admit it out loud, can’t even admit it to himself as a matter of fact, but he still blushes with pride whenever he feels he has his big brother approval. He’s in a good mood. Prepared for everything, because he’s studied Magnus’ magical knowledge and everything there is to know about the gem. He’s a hundred percent certain nothing can go wrong. 

::: :::

Greenvalley is a typical small town with an Elvis-themed motel Dean immediately becomes enamored of. They do a round just to learn what is being said about the old St-Wenceslas Church that burned back in the forties and has never been rebuilt. The only thing going around is that the air is unhealthy; because of that, it’s never been one of those abandoned places where kids like to hang out, to draw graffiti, smoke a joint or make out. It doesn’t surprise Sam. Magnus’ trap is surely a very effective one. 

 

The first visit Sam and Dean make to the church is one of recognition only. Dean is very careful, walking slowly around, examining everything, turning every stone scattered on the ground. Sam looks for any indication as to where the protection circle might starts, but it’s evident they will have to enter the church –well, is entering even the correct term when most of the roof is missing? As a matter of fact, there are a couple of trees that have grown inside the church and are now taller than the building. 

“Why is it always a church?” Dean asks, joining Sam in front of the door that’s still firmly held practically intact by the façade. The inscription over the door, even burned by smoke, can still be read, or part of it, at least. “Wenceslas Baptist Church.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those places… There are the exceptions, of course, but there are so many burned or abandoned churches, where evil could be at work, or then they’re cursed, or they’ve been the witness of horrible event. I don’t like churches,” Dean concluded, pushing the door open slowly.

“I supposed there is the significance of them, the symbol they represent,” Sam says, although he doesn’t feel the urge to make an expose of haunted and cursed places. He can see the interior of the church and is relieved that the sun is lighting the place enough for them not to need to use their flashlights. It will be far easier to locate the magical circle.

Sam is about to step in when Dean stops him with his arm stretched out. “Go slowly,” Dean warns, which earns him an eyeroll that is completely deserved, like Sam is still a kid learning the ways of the hunt.

Grass has grown on most of the cement floor. The benches were burned completely, probably because they were made of wood. It’s a small church. All that’s left of the nave are the steps leading to it. And right there, where the third step ends, a statue of the Virgin Mary is standing. It is at least one foot taller than Sam, and it looks out of place, clean, the paint covering the plaster white and intact. 

“Wow, look at that bad Photoshop work,” Dean whistles. As is often the case, he has perfectly pointed out with his colorful language what they are witnessing.

It’s not only the statue that looks out of place, but the ground on which it rests. There is no grass there. The cement gives the impression it was made yesterday, with not one dead leaf or piece of rock disturbing it. The magic circle’s perimeter is right there, jumping at their eyes. It’s about two feet wide. 

As Sam walks closer, with Dean following, not looking at the statue but at him, like he’s ready to jump on Sam and hold him back if he’s… what… swallowed by the circle? Ridiculous. Sam does walk closer. About a foot away from the circle, he feels it, the thickness of the air, like it’s solid. Talking a breath, he has the impression he needs to swallow for the oxygen to reach his lungs. It’s uncomfortable enough for him to start walking backward until he feels he can breathe normally.

Beside Sam, Dean must have gone through the same process. Without a word, he crouches and picks up a small pebble and throws it straight at the statue without further ceremony. It doesn’t reach it, stops its course suddenly, mid-air, rebounding on an invisible obstacle before falling to the ground.

“So, yeah, magical barrier,” Dean comments. “Do you see the African Shifting Gem?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be embedded in the statue,” Sam ponders, squinting at the statue.

He can’t see anything, only painted plaster. He’s concentrating so hard that he jumps when Dean elbows him to get his attention. He’s handing him a pair of binoculars.

“How many pockets do you have exactly?” Sam wonders, because it appears that, each time they need something during a hunt, it turns out to be hidden somewhere in Dean’s jacket.  
Dean smiles smugly. “Look at the place where both hands are crossed, on the chest,” he indicates.

Sam does. It takes a few seconds, but he finally sees a small, red and grey spot between the fingers of the right hand that’s covering the other. It’s almost like St. Mary is holding the gem.

“Okay, genius,” Dean takes the binoculars back. “Now what?”

“We have to come back at night.”

“Why?” Dean’s tone is almost whiny. “It’s a magic circle not a spirit. Let’s do this now, light of day, the sound of birds chirping, huh? Why not?”

“Because I have this spell from the Book of the Dead that is, basically, a detector of magical barriers. Not only can it detect them but it can find the best way to get rid of them.”

As always, whenever the Book of the Dead is mentioned, Dean’s eyes get darker. Sam can almost see the events in them Rowena, the Steins, Charlie’s sacrifice, the Mark… He got it. There wasn’t a time when he grabbed the codex and its translation without thinking of the young red-headed hunter and her horrible death. Some deaths seem inevitable. They hurt, but you accept them. Charlie Bradbury’s death will never be accepted, either by Sam, or Dean “Listen man, I only use the parts of the book which I’m sure can do no harm,” he says in a soothing tone.

Dean nods and shakes his head vigorously, as if it helps him to clear it. “Yeah, you don’t have to explain, I trust you Sam. S’just…”

“I know.”

They exchanged a look, one of those silent conversation they’re having more and more often. Sam doesn’t think it can even translate into words. It’s deeper than that, it’s like a connection, an exchange of something way more complex than words.

They’re okay. They both understand the emotional state of the other. That’s the main thing.

“Let me guess. That spell has to be practiced at night. Full moon, third of the month, whatever…”

“Actually, no. There is a foot note, though, stating that it’s easier to detect magic barriers in the dark.”

“Huh,” Dean shrugs. “Hard to believe, but it make sense.”

“Yeah.”

Dean pats Sam on the back. “So, we got a few hours to lose. There this restaurant just at the edge of the town with an all-you-can-eat-buffet. What do you say?”

Sam knows damn well he doesn’t have a say in the matter. He tries for an enthusiastic smile. Dean sees right through it. And doesn’t care.

::: ::::

Sometimes, when something really intense –or dramatic, or just… _too much_ happens - sometimes, your brain does this strange thing where time doesn’t matter, and in one second, it’s like a little eternity passes, making you analyze every single detail, every view your eyes catches unreeling like frames on a camera roll.

That’s what happens to Sam when the statue explode. They’re at a safe distance, Sam is pronouncing the last word of the formula while Dean drops the lit match into the bowl, setting the ingredients on fire, colored by blue and green sparkles. And then, a hot wave washes over them before the ground starts shaking.

And the Virgin Mary statue explodes.

Time stops just as Sam is lifting his arm in front of his face to protect himself. He thinks, very clearly, completely detached. _I did not see that coming. I thought about the magical circle disintegrating, I kept Dean and I at a safe distance but it never crossed my mind the statue could explode._

Everything had been going so well. Dean, who’d been grumpy about this whole magical-stone case, was in good spirits after having devastated the all-you-can-eat buffet, high on endorphins and relaxed by a couple of beers –never drink during a case apparently does not apply to retrieving a gem just for fun. He’d let Sam pronounce the formula to determine the best way to break the circle and even commented on how clever it was. The circle had appeared before them in the twilight, more of a sphere than a circle, and it had a warm, buzzing quality to it. Using the compass made according to the instructions in the book, Sam had found that a simple curse breaking spell would do the job if he mixes it with a physical sigil removal. Dean had called him nerd in that proud-big-brother tone and help to prepare the ritual. 

Yes, everything had been going according to plan. Dean had even taken two huge spotlights out of the car’s trunk that he had installed to make their work easier. What could go wrong?

A statue exploding, Sam thinks, and a second passes, but very, very slowly, slow enough for Sam to be at least a little bit relieved. The plaster does not fracture into small, dangerous projectiles, it’s reduced to dust, and the fact that it’s flying everywhere, even if it isn’t exactly agreeable, can’t hurt them.

Still trapped in that strange distortion, Sam turns his head to look at Dean. His brother’s instinct had been to grab Sam by the sleeve of his shirt and pull him backward. They are falling on their asses, since they were crouching on the ground when it happened.

Dean isn’t protecting his face. He’s looking straight in front of him with a surprised expression.

Fast forward. As suddenly as Sam’s brain had stopped time, it catches up with it.

Sam grunts when his bottom hit a piece of concrete as he falls back, helping himself with his arms so he won't land on his back. He feels the dust landing on him, on his face, on his arms, everywhere, and he coughs, but he is still focused on Dean, who’s in a similar position, except he opens his mouth suddenly and crosses his eyes. He lets go of Sam’s sleeve to raise his arm in front of his face but… too late.  
There is an unimpressive “plop” noise as something small and dark hits him right on the bridge of his nose.

“Aow,” Dean grunts, pressing his nose between his thumb and his index. He turns toward Sam, his eyes opening wide, which gives him a funny look, given that he’s covered in white dust. “Dice work, Sab, really…”

Sam, hearing the way his brother speaks with his nose pinched, has even more trouble not bursting out laughing. Then, a sudden thought crosses his mind, and everything ceased to be funny. He jumps onto his knees and looks around Dean on the ground, rummaging through the old concrete and the dust. He’s wearing gloves: they both are, because they didn’t know what was going to happen, and with the properties of the stone…

The small black pebble that had hit Dean… It can’t… What are the odds, really…

Dean catches up soon enough. “Was that the freaking stone? Was I hit on the nose with the stone?” He asks in a panicked voice. 

“I don’t know, Dean, how do you feel?”

“I feel pissed,” Dean grumbles, and at that exact moment, Sam finds it. It is the African Shifting Gem, it fit the description and the old photography. It looks insignificant, a dark grey pebble you could find anywhere. The ruby shards scattering it are few and very small.

“It’s the gem, fuck, Sam…,” Dean bends over to have a better look. “It hit me very quick, does that count, or should I have hold it for… I don’t know, a few seconds?”

Sam doesn’t have an answer. The stone has touched Dean’s bare skin. In the Men of Letters file, each time Anthony and Croft had experimented, they had held the stone. It had taken less than a minute for the transformation to start, but Sam doesn’t think telling Dean they’ll know for sure very soon will help. Less than a minute is still long enough for his brother to punch him.

“I feel weird,” Dean declares. “No… no no no, I’m imagining this. I don’t… Awww, shit, I do feel weird, Sam, I-“

His voice seems to be punched out of his lungs. From the position he is currently in, up on his knees, he falls on his side, bending himself in two, his arms wrapped around his waist. “Not good,” he goes on. “It tingles inside it’s…”

At the same time, Sam feels the stone vibrate. It starts floating upward, turning quickly on itself. Sam tries to catch it but once more it’s projected at Dean who now shakes violently, his teeth chattering so hard Sam can hear it.

“I told you so,” are Dean’s last words before a flash of red light explodes, blinding Sam. The vibration he had felt holding the stone is now stronger, shaking the ground, producing a strange buzzing noise.

“Dean!” Sam calls, walking on all fours toward what he hopes is his brother’s position.

There is no answer.

The blinding red light is wavering and trembling, then, it turns into a ball, like it’s folding on itself, until it’s a feeble spark that dies in front of Sam eyes.

He’s almost touching Dean, he realizes, blinking as he regains his sight. Stretching a hand, he grabs his brother’s arm.

And pulls his hand back immediately. It’s not Dean’s arm, it’s the empty sleeve of his jacket.

Panic takes hold of Sam so brutally he can’t even breathe. Lifting himself onto his feet, he looks down at the form on the ground. Dean’s clothes, still in the position his brother was in a few seconds back, but without Dean filling them.

No animal in sight. Like Sam’s brother has just vanished into thin air.

“DEAN!”  
Sam throws himself on the pile of clothes, not even knowing what he’s looking for, his head filled with a red panic that annihilates everything else. It’s probably why it takes him a while before the high-pitched sound, similar to a kitten mewling, but louder, comes to his ears.

Sam stops moving abruptly. The lights of the projectors are still open, but they are aimed in the direction of the statue. The place where Dean landed after the explosion is dark. 

“Dean?” Sam asks in a very calm voice.

Again, the same mewling sound, but Sam can’t see anything.

“Dean, don’t move, I’ll find you.”

Sam’s still not sure he’s actually speaking to someone. Even after reading pages and pages describing the African Shifting Gem’s effects, the situation is surreal. It’s almost more believable to think that his brother has disappeared than to look for a tiny, whining animal.

Something shifts to Sam’s right. He grabs his flashlight into the inside pocket of his jacket. 

“Don’t be surprised, I’ll use my flashlight,” Sam says in the same calm voice.

Sam aims the light in the noise’s direction, and he sees it immediately.

“What the…”

It’s a tiny animal, no bigger than a cat, but despite the mewling noise, it’s not a cat. It looks like a… fox, but of a species Sam has never seen before. The muzzle is longer, the color, a mix of light golden and white fur, is paler and the ears… well, disproportionate seems like a euphemism –they give the tiny, already pointy face a cartoonish expression. Like a Pokémon.

“Dean you’re a Pokémon,” Sam murmurs, getting closer to him. 

The cute little Pokémon-Dean-thingy stops rolling around on itself and sits up straight. 

“It’s in the eyes,” Sam whispers, pointing the light right above them so he doesn't scare his huh… brother?

The eyes aren’t exactly those of an animal. Well, Sam has no clue what kind of animal Dean is. He’ll admit he’s not exactly a nerd when it comes down to fauna of the world, but there is one aspect of every single one of them that makes all the difference between humanity and wildlife - that spark of intelligence –well, not to be condescending, let’s say self-awareness, maybe? Long story short, that spark, that humanish… _glow_ , is there in the creature’s eyes where it shouldn’t be, where it’s never seen in any non-human form of life. The eyes’ color also seems wrong to Sam, even though it might be normal. They are green - the exact same green as Dean’s. Yes. Okay. Now what? Gosh, Sam hates when he gets lost monologuing inside his head.

Despite the creature in front of him being awfully cute and covered in fluffy fur, what Sam can read in its eye right now is fury. He doesn’t have time to think about it for too long, though, because he notices something peculiar just above them, almost completely hidden by a tuft of golden fur, but it’s enough. Sam recognizes the African Shifting Gem. It’s supposed to be there, it’s been engraved onto the forehead of each animal Anthony and Croft shifted into, even adapting to their shape and size. They had concluded that that’s why the stone could only curse one person at a time.

“The stone is there,” he points to Pokémon Dean’s forehead, which is a mistake, he realizes immediately, as Dean lies on his side and begins to scratch furiously at his forehead with his tiny paws –tiny and cute but still equipped with sharp claws. 

“Dean, stop, it’s not-“

Sam grabs his brother in his arms –wow, he must weigh less than fifteen pounds- and traps his front paws together, away from his head. The fury in Dean's eyes triples in intensity. He opens his mouth, showing white, sharp teeth and… barks.

Barking. The only appropriate comparison of the noise coming out of Dean's mouth is a small dog’s bark, like a… terrier, or a shih tzu, which is something Sam would never, ever, say out loud. He doesn’t let go of Dean, though. Dean has stopped fighting, as surprised as Sam by what just came out of his tiny chest.

“The gem won’t come out. There is no way to break the curse. You'll just have to tough it out.”

Dean shows his teeth, then begins to twist in Sam’s arm, not as aggressively as before, but just like a cat does when it’s tired of being held.

Gosh, this is surreal. Sam almost puts Dean down, then he changes his mind and stands up instead. It doesn’t please his brother, who plants his –really, very sharp- claws in Sam’s shirt, shuffling until his head is at Sam’s level. It takes a while for Sam to get it. He’s ready to complain and curse at his brother, but then he thinks twice. Dean is currently a foxlike Pokémon no bigger than a cat. The height must be impressive. He’s reacting with fear.

“Okay, I won’t drop you,” he says. And to avoid another scratching attack from Pokémon Dean he adds immediately: “and I prefer to keep you in my arms until I get you to the car safely. It’s night; you’re the size of a cat; it’s safer.”

Dean barks, then shakes his fox head in disbelief. That noise will take some time to get used to.

Sam doesn’t wait to argue any longer with an animal and makes his way outside, explaining all the while. “I’ll clean everything in here while you wait in the car. Then we’ll figure out what’s our next move.”

A sudden thought stops him just as he’s opening the car’s door. “Dean, do you really understand everything I say to you?”

Dean, whose pointy head is turned toward him, barks. This time, it seems that the bark is crossed with a mewl. Hell! What kind of animal is he actually?

“Can you nod with your head?

For a moment, all Dean does is glare back at Sam. Then, he nods, twice, slowly, as if it’s a difficult motion. 

“Okay,” Sam agrees. He opens the door and puts Dean delicately onto the passenger seat. Dean lets out another high-pitched meow that has a vaguely exasperated quality to it and sits straight on his rear, his long, fluffy tail wrapping itself around his legs. The tip is black, like it’s been dipped into paint, adding to the impression that the genus of animal Dean has become isn’t actually real, but instead it's a fantasy straight out of a twelve years old girl “awwwing” as she encounters anything even remotely cute.

Sam packs everything in a record time. He does give a few minutes to the examination of what might have been the magical barrier. He isn’t surprised to find it gone. The painful breathing sensation when he had been close to it earlier has disappeared as well. There is nothing left of the statue except for the plinth made out of copper. All in all, with the exception of Dean having been hit by the stone and transformed into an animal, retrieving the gem can be considered as a successful hunt, although Sam is certain Dean would have a few words to say about that.

They’ve still been lucky, Sam thinks, going back to the car. Dean could have shifted into a tiger, or, well, an elephant. It had happened before to Anthony and Croft. He wonders if his brother considers his actual shape like an insult to his manliness, then wonders how he can even doubt it. 

Sam points the flashlight into the car to see that the passenger seat is suddenly empty. The tiny creature is now in the back seat, his muzzle shoved into a bag of chips, trying to get to the bottom of it if the way he’s wiggling is any indication. This personality trait is also in agreement with the notes in the case file. While the subject in its animal form seems to have kept his human conscience completely, it’s constantly challenged by his animal instincts. Croft had written after his first experience, during which he’d turned into an antelope, “I knew perfectly who I was and what was happening to me; nevertheless, when the need to run through the woods would take its hold on me, I could never fight it for long. It's true to relate that sometimes I would find myself acting like an antelope without even realizing it. It was like my mind was now split in two, half human, half animal, and even though, most of the time, the human half would dominate the animal one, the reverse would catch me out from time to time.”

Of course, Dean would have put it in different words. Sam can hear his voice in his head, clear as crystal. “What the hell? I know I’m not a damn (insert here the name of the still unknown foxlike creature,) but what can I say? The bag smelled good, and I wanted to lick it. Sue me. It’s all your fault anyway.”

 

That makes Sam smile. At the same time, Dean seems to feel the light on him, because he clumsily pulls his head out of the bag, fighting it with his front paws, and jumps back onto the passenger seat, sitting straight up and trying to preserve his dignity.

Sam suppresses his smile and sits behind the wheel, taking his time to pull the seat back a couple of inches, while he pushes the key into the ignition. He can feel Dean’s intense gaze on him, a mix of irritation and impatience. 

Now what?

::: :::

“You’re a fennec fox, Dean!”

Dean lifts his head from his motel room bed, where he’s busy licking at the remains of his cheeseburger and fries –he’s going to be sick later. Sam is certain of it. It might be Dean’s mind, but his stomach is that of a tiny animal. Sam did try to stop him, which earned him a growl, and a showing of white, pointy teeth. He hadn’t insisted. When it comes to food, Dean is like a child. He will never learn.

Sam tries not to “aww” at the way the tiny creature –the fennec- tilt his head to the side hearing the news. There are ketchup spots on the white fur of his chin. It’s adorable.

“The fennec fox,” he reads, going back to the web page. “Is the smallest of foxes. It can be found in North Africa. It’s an omnivore; it lives in tribes, and its whole body is accommodated for life in a desert environment such as the Sahara. Those huge ears you have, they help to keep you cool from the sun. 

Dean jumps off the bed and trots to the table Sam is sitting at. He tries to jump onto his lap but misses it and lets out an exasperated bark. Sam stifles a laughs and picks him up, so he can look at the computer screen. Sam has no idea what kind of vision a fennec has –he’s far from being an expert yet, but he hopes to learn as much as he can before they hit the road later. Dean does seem to be able to see what’s on the screen, which is a large picture of a fennec female with a young one. His expression shifts from curious to complete surprise –yes, Sam knows Dean so well it’s already getting easy to see him behind the animal he is. 

“Right, you haven’t looked at yourself yet.”

Dean’s tiny muzzle gets closer to the screen. His large ears twitch, his tail whips to and fro. He stands on four paws and turns around himself, like he wants to see every inch of his body. Finally, he jumps on the floor, stretches his rear paws and looks down between his legs. 

He's looking at whatever constitute the Fennec’s junk. Gosh, this is so funny. Every one of Sam’s chest muscles hurt from containing his laughter.

Whatever Dean sees seems to scare him shitless, because he lifts his head real quick and looks at Sam in distress.

“Dude, you’re a fox,” Sam reminds him.

Dean lowers his muzzle in defeat, which cast a light on the area behind his eyes, the creamy white fur that's shorter there. There is something peculiar, something Sam hasn’t seen on any pictures he’s been looking at. The fur under Dean’s eyes and on his cheeks isn’t completely white but scattered with tiny patches of brown, almost as dark as the end of his tail. 

“You kept your freckles,” he states, and how amusing is that, since Dean has always been annoyed by them –he’s a freaking African miniature fox, but the freckles have followed. Kind of.

Dean barks and turns his back to Sam with what he must think is dignity. He trots to the bathroom, pushing at the closed door with his paws. Then Sam hears some shuffling. He follows, curious, and finds his brother standing in the small sink, staring at his reflection in the dirty mirror. He must have gotten onto the toilet lid to reach that high. As much as Sam has seen so far, Dean’s jumping abilities are good for his size, but not as good as, let’s say, a cat. 

Dean’s eyes cross the mirror as he tilts his head left, right, up, and down. Then, he catches Sam watching him in the mirror and shows his teeth. The message is clear. Dean holds Sam responsible for his state and will make him pay.

Sam can’t deny it. He shrugs. “I know, I’m sorry, Dean, but it could have been worse. I’m serious. If you’d shifted into a rhino or a freaking crocodile, can you imagine? What would we do? If the biggest problem you have right now is with how adorable you look… we can work with it, right?”

A tiny growl is Dean’s answer. 

“You’re supposed to be a nocturnal animal, won’t be that different than our usual schedules when we hunt. What do you want to do? Drive back home now or wait until morning?”

Sam waits. Seconds pass. Dean finally turns his head to look toward him, sighing through his nose with a high-pitched noise.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Sam laughs at his own stupidity, waiting for an answer from a fox. He uses his two hands and repeats. “Heading back now,” he shakes his right hand, “or heading back in the morning,” he shakes his left.

Dean’s paw immediately reaches Sam’s right hand. It’s understandable that, in his state of vulnerability, he must be impatient to go back to the bunker. Safest option. Even if Sam is tired and will have to do the whole driving on his own, he owes it to Dean. He’s not the one trapped in an animal body for the next three weeks.

“Okay, I’ll pack, and then we’re off,” he agrees.

Dean makes another new sound, something guttural that’s not as cute as the rest. His body tenses.

He pukes the damn cheeseburger into the sink. 

Sam isn’t even surprised. “Sounded like a cat spitting a hairball,” he states when Dean walks out of the bathroom on shaky legs. His way of saying “I told you so.” Dean lies down on the carpet bear his bed and puts his chin on his joined front paws. He’s brooding. Let him be for a while, Sam tells himself, maybe he’s starting to understand that whole shifting thing.

A few minutes later, Sam is in the middle of stuffing his clothes in his duffle when Dean trots to the door and scratches on it urgently.

“What now? Still feeling sick?”

Dean turns his tiny head at him for a quick second, then pushes on the door with his right front paw.

“I’m hurrying,” Sam states, because maybe that’s it, maybe Dean is just impatient to leave town. “Another ten minutes and then-“

An impatient bark answers him. Dean pushes at the door again.

Sam stops what he’s doing. “What?”

The fennec shakes his head from left to right, a gesture so human that, at that precise moment, it’s impossible to believe the animal standing there really isn’t more than that. Sam doesn’t have the time to question himself further because Dean runs to the bathroom. There, he touches the toilet, then runs back to the door and pushes it. 

Wow. Another thing Sam hasn’t thought through. Dean still has to eliminate the natural way, and he wants to go outside to do it.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, pushing the door open.

He bends down to take Dean in his arms, but the fox slips away, galloping through the parking, then walking under a tiny opening of the chain link fence at the end of the lot. Sam runs, yelling at him to wait, but Dean disappears quickly in the bushes behind the barrier. 

Sam waits there, looking around the parking lot to see if anyone witnessed a man running after a fox at two in the morning, but the lot is empty, and the curtains of the two other occupied rooms are stretched behind the windows. 

After two minutes, Sam calls Dean again. The bushes aren’t thick, nor especially big, but can they hide other animals, like an opossum or a skunk? What if Dean finds himself face to face with one of those? In Africa, the fennec has a lot of predators: from bigger foxes to birds of prey, and big snakes. Dean isn’t safe, that’s for sure.

Sam is about to climb the fence when there is a shuffle in the bushes, and Dean reappears, his eyes reflecting the light, giving him an eerie appearance.

“Dean you can’t go into the woods alone, you’re the size of a cat! And a small one, that is-“

Sam is sure his imagination is playing tricks with him because he could swear a fox just lifted an eyebrow at him before slowly trotting back to the room. Ignoring him. For the first time since Dean disappeared inside his clothes, Sam thinks about how hard it will be _for him_ to take care of his shifted brother. When Dean is unhappy, he likes to share, to annoy Sam, to push him until Sam explodes and gets as unhappy as he is himself. It seems that being a miniature fox doesn’t change anything in that character trait. It might even emphasize it.

“Fine,” he says out loud, just as the tiny fox passes the door’s threshold, “when you get chased by a Doberman because you wanted to pee alone, outside, in the dark, I’ll watch you run.”

::: :::

They are ready to go at three in the morning. Sam had suggested to Dean that he should settle in the back seat where there would be less chance of being seen, but Dean had shaken his head and stayed seated upright on the passenger seat. For the first ten minutes, Sam talks. It seems like the right thing to do, entertaining Dean, who is trapped in his fox’s body and unable to drive. He gets into the details of Anthony and Croft report, relates some other facts he’s read about the fennec fox, and then realizes Dean isn’t listening to him at all. From his seated position, he has slowly shifted, until he’s leaning back against the seat. He looks through the window, his gaze glassy, the only movement he makes is rubbing at his forehead with his paw, like the stone is bothering him. And maybe it is.

Sam doesn’t tell him to stop picking at it, because Dean’s touch is light, without any real intent. He’s going to fall asleep. Sam becomes silent and lowers the volume of the music. The metamorphosis must have been hard, physically speaking. Containing a human being’s mind and conscience, his essence, in a body so small, surely is exhausting. And soon enough, Dean abandons all pretense of wanting to stay awake. He curls in on himself, a fluffy golden ball, his tail wrapped around him. A few minutes later, he’s sleeping, letting out small, snuffling sounds, just like a baby would. The fur seems so soft, Dean so peaceful, that Sam starts thinking about how good it would feel to run his fingers from Dean's head and down his back. After all, caressing a dog or a cat is so soothing. Sam had wanted so badly to own a pet when he’d been young, and that was one of the reasons. There aren’t a lot of things more calming to him than caressing the fur of a pet, feeling its warmth, while you fill its need for affection.

Sam’s hand leaves the wheel a couple of times, but he doesn’t do it. Even though Dean might feel the petting as soothing as the animal he is would, Sam is well aware that he would fight it, if only for show.

It’s quiet in the car. Sam stops only once to fill the gas tank. Dean sleeps through the ten hour drives to the bunker.

::: :::

When Sam cuts off the engine, he sighs loudly and starts stretching his legs immediately, one out of the car, the other inside. He yawns, hearing his jaw crack, then looks at Dean, who’s still curled into a little ball of golden fur, sleeping. Sam touches his back and shakes him.

“Dean, we’re home.”

Dean doesn’t move. Sam allows himself the luxury of caressing his head and then plunges his fingers into the thick fur around his neck. He was right. It’s incredibly soft and warm. 

“Dean,” he repeats, petting the fox with more intent.

The tiny animal lets out a series of high-pitched plaintive noises as he starts to stretch, like he wants to stay asleep, and Sam to leave him alone. And hell, this time, Sam regrets not having prepared his cell phone to record this. There is a limit to his compassion for Dean. He needs to capture some of these supernatural moments and show them to Dean later. He’s still a little brother, after all. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Dean.

When Dean is completely awake, standing on his paws, the light in his eyes is still glassy. It’s clear that he’s confused, and the animal part of his mind has taken over.

“Dean,” Sam repeats, ready to remind him of the last day’s events.

He doesn’t have time, though, because Dean jumps over him and onto the ground, then starts running in large circles, his large ears pressed against the back of his head, his mouth open, reminding Sam of dogs that get too excited and act the same way, as if they were possessed.

He tries to call his brother’s name, but then decides that, what the hell, if Dean the fennec needs to let out some energy, well, it can’t hurt him. It’s just hard not to speak to him in dog language, though, tell him how he’s a good boy, how he’s happy to be home, _aren’t you, buddy? Huh? You’re happy to be home?_

Sam lets his fennec of a brother spend his energy, while he gets their bags inside. He’s gone for a good ten minutes, and when he comes back Dean is waiting for him, sitting next to the Impala, looking way calmer. His eyes are sharp, and when Sam gets close, he makes a gesture with his head to the left and walks in that direction, looking back to see if Sam is following him. He leads him to a small air duct near the garage entry. Dean twists himself to go through it while Sam use the door nearby. It gives way to a calm corner of the backwoods that surrounds the bunker, half a mile away from the well-hidden garage entry. Dean walks a few steps to a bunch of low bushes and sits in front of it, tapping his foot and letting out a small bark. It doesn’t take long for Sam to interpret the meaning.

“Your own private bathroom, I suppose?”

Dean nods with his muzzle. He’s wise, having found an exit that allows him to get out without needing to disturb Sam. It still worries Sam, and he explains it to him while they walk back side by side. About the fennec being an easy prey. Dean seems insulted and shakes his head to express his opinion. Sam wonders, as he opens the door to the corridor leading to the kitchen, how crazy he must look like, speaking reasonably to an animal that's no bigger than a cat.

Luckily for them, they rarely have visitors at the bunker.

::: :::

The first couple of days are a period of adjustment. They soon realize that Dean in his fennec form can’t really digest any processed meal without having terrible stomach-ache afterward. It feels bad enough that he lets Sam rub his belly until the cramps subside. Since the fennec is an omnivore, Dean seems content with raw fruits, nuts and vegetables, and the occasional piece of meat –it has to be almost raw, and Dean doesn’t like it. He’ll eat, but won’t be hide his grimace of disgust.

There is also the problem of the doors. Sam is used to navigating the bunker, going into different rooms and closing the doors afterward. He doesn’t think about it until he gets his brother trapped in one of the storage rooms and realizes it only half an hour later, when he hears furious barking and scratching at the door. Afterward, Dean goes to lie down in the kitchen on the rug near the oven and ignores Sam for a good two hours.

The first night of their arrival, Dean walks into his room, jumps onto the bed and rolls himself into a ball, so Sam figures he’s okay and settles in his own room. In the morning, though, he almost trips over the fennec’s body when he wakes up. Dean is fast asleep on the floor as close to the bed as he can without being on it. He figures that the fennec part of Dean’s mind might feel small and in need of protection in this immense house. They don’t talk about it –well, they don’t _communicate_ about it. Not even the following night, when Sam wakes up with Dean sleeping on his bed.

Knowing that Dean still is, even only partly, his own self, Sam tries to figure out a way for them to communicate. He cuts off huge cardboard letters and explains to Dean that he has his own giant spelling board. Dean does that noise that’s between a mewl and a bark and walks cautiously between the letters, sniffing them. Then, to Sam’s surprise, he grabs one between his teeth –the “D”- then starts running around with it, rolling on his back and playing until the cardboard square is torn into wet confetti. Sam asks, patiently, if Dean knows the meaning of those letters, and Dean nods seriously, but every other effort is met with the same negative results. It’s like the animal inside of Dean’s mind doesn’t appear and disappear, but is always there, and, if sometimes it acts like a human in a way that make the little fennec look like a fake CGI, the animal still shares the space. It’s strange. Sam wonders how much Dean really understands, and if he fights to get the upper hand. The notes in the files of the men of letters reflect similar experiences. Both Croft and Anthony admit that, even though they were under the impression they had perfect memory of the twenty days under the curse, the other one, the observer, notes that a lot of behaviors seems to be missing. As far as it goes, they both admit it’s extremely hard to describe how it felt to be in an animal’s skin.

After those two days, and seeing how Dean isn’t interested in trying to communicate by human means, Sam decides to go with the flow. 

That period in their life is strange, but no necessarily in a bad way.

::: :::

Sam had always wanted his own dog, and it did happen a couple of time in his life, but, maybe because he had other preoccupations –like, say, having run away from home or mourning his brother’s disappearance in the arms of a woman… Maybe he never realized how much work taking care of a pet actually is. It’s something, of course, he’ll never tell Dean, once his brother has shifted back to his normal self. Because although it is a lot of work, Sam finds himself enjoying it. There is something soothing in caring for someone that’s vulnerable and entirely depending on you, that can be satisfied and happy if his basic needs are fulfilled. Dean doesn’t do Dean things in his animal form. Sam had caught him trying to watch TV, or even roaming around the Impala, like he wanted, somehow, to clean it or change the oil. But in the end, Dean spend his days running around with his funny ears catching an inexistent wind, sleeping in the most incongruous places, like an open drawer in Sam’s room, or perched on the top of a bookshelf. 

It seems, nevertheless, that Dean is trying his best to remain himself, but failing miserably. One morning, he jumps on Sam’s lap and dip his pink tongue in his coffee, then pulls back his head and rub at his muzzle with his front paws. Sam, after scowling him for his manners, guesses Dean might want a coffee and doesn’t like the taste of Sam’s one, heavy with sugar and cream. He pours him a bowl of black coffee after having verified it wasn’t too hot. Dean walks to the bowl, sniffs it, and runs away, like he’s completely forgotten he’d wanted one and Sam is trying to poison him.

It is barely the tip of the iceberg. Sam realizes that Dean is never too far away from him, never for long. After the first couple of nights he doesn’t even try to be subtle come night time and jumps straight on Sam’s bed, rolling himself in a ball pressed against his brother’s back. And Sam… well. Sam kinds of like it. It’s comforting, that small, hot body pressed against him, and it fills his night with dreams that are mostly memories of a childhood spent sharing a bed with Dean, first blissed out in the innocence that monsters under the bed go away when you turn on the light, then, knowing that it was false, gripping to his brother with all the desperation of a child who’s learned that the nightmare continues when you’re awake. Sometimes, Dean will crawl up the pillow during the night, and Sam will find himself running his fingers into his soft fur, half awake, half sleeping, and in the morning it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because during the day, nothing really changes.

Sam sits on the couch, and Dean is there next to him, sometimes letting his head rest on his thigh and purring when Sam pets his head, his neck. Because yeah, fennecs can also purr. During those moments, when Sam watches TV or does lazy research on his laptop, he talks. He speaks more than he ever did, and finds himself telling anecdotes about the both of them, or even confiding in his deepest thought to his brother trapped in animal form, not minding if Dean understands everything or not a word. Because it seems that, at some point along the way, Dean has just decided to let go of the human part of his mind, has decided to enjoy, even, the very simple existence he’s been granted for a couple of weeks. That’s Sam’s hypothesis anyway. They can spend a day where nothing the fennec does gives Sam a clue that it actually has a human mind. Dean runs around and tries to bring Sam to the door, dragging him with his tiny teeth by the rim of his jeans. Which means he needs to be outside, needs to run around under the protective eyes of his brother, sniffing the soil, scratching the tree’s bark, digging in the dirt until he comes out with it all over his muzzle, sneezing and shaking his head. Then he’ll sleep, cuddle next to Sam for the rest of the day, purring and stretching, exposing his belly without any shame.

But then, there are other times where Dean will have Sam wondering if his conscience is still acute and active, and if Dean is actually enjoying everything, lifting a mental eyebrow at his little brother as he indulges all sorts of things, cuddling, amongst others. One evening, Sam is watching TV without really following the featured documentary. He’s scratching Dean behind the ears, and he starts to talk. He doesn’t know how, but the subject has come around to his time at Stanford. Strange, after eleven years and so many conflicts and fights, the world trying to pull them apart, Stanford remains a delicate subject. Maybe because it had been the first of so many ruptures, defining each of the brother’s characters, not as John Winchester’s kids, but as adults of their own. And here is Sam, rambling about how conflicted those years were, and how he can’t even keep the happiest of those memories, even Jess, knowing now that Lucifer and his demons had already been there, watching, and waiting to strike. It’s late, okay? Sam’s had a couple of beers, and he’s in a sentimental mood. A lump swells in his throat, and he feels a couple of tears escape his eyes. He becomes silent, surprised at his own emotions, and lowers his head to find Dean looking back at him, tiny fox so serious, almost solemn. He climbs Sam’s chest with his front paws and licks the tears on his cheeks, before rubbing his muzzle against Sam’s neck in what can only be a comforting gesture. And right then, it is Dean that’s comforting Sam, and who is understanding every single word, as well as every silence of Sam's monologue. Or hell, maybe it’s only the animal, feeling his companion’s distress.

All in all, the curse puts Sam through a very strange, but kind of peaceful, couple of weeks. That is, of course, until Dean goes and almost gets killed.

Figures. 

 

::: :::

It’s three days before the end of Dean’s curse. Sam is already shifting into resolution mode. According to the file, the transformation is approximately the same the other way around. The “subject” as it’s noted in the pompous way of the Men of Letters, finds himself in a weak state and runs a low-grade fever for twenty four hours but doesn’t seem to suffer much else. There is a mental confusion that can be observed, on and off, also for a twenty-four hour period. The files are vague, though, about the “long-lasting after effects” that seem to rely on the “experience of the subject as an animal.” It shouldn’t be that important, or else Croft and Anthony wouldn’t have tried it more than once.

Sam does explains it to Dean, in detail, and he's as reassuring as he can be. There is no way of telling, though, if his brother, tilting his head to the right and twitching his ears, his tail wiping the floor lazily, understands everything. Sam shrugs and smiles, throwing a slice of apple at the fennec who catches it between his teeth with the same grace Dean shows in his human form.

It’s morning. Sam goes into the shower and, this time, doesn’t scream like a freaking girl when a fennec jumps into it without any warning. It’s the third time. The first, Sam is not ashamed to admit it, he had an instinctive reaction and covered his junk with both hands. He swears that, if a fennec could laugh, it would make the exact same noise as the series of joyous barks that had escaped from Dean’s throat. 

“Christ, Dean, you could just ask for it, you know,” Sam groans, but keeps on going, moving to the side so that the fennec can be exposed to the spray. As usual, Dean doesn’t stay long, jumps around and lift his head, mouth opened to catch the droplets. Then, he shakes himself like a dog and leaves. Sam sighs, knowing he’ll find a wet trail scattered with fur all over the bunker, leading to the garage, then to Dean’s own private escape. 

Except when Sam is dressed and on his way to find Dean –he never likes letting him outside alone but if there is something Dean seems to want to keep, it’s at least part of his pride- he doesn’t find him. He’s been out of the shower for at least ten minutes. Dean knows better than staying outside without him.

Sam pushes the side door and calls for him. No answer, no irritated bark, nothing. He knows instantly and unquestionably that his fennec of a brother is in trouble. The good thing about the bunker is how isolated it is, lost at the end of a desert road surrounded by woods. And those good things become bad when you’re a cat-sized animal who’s not even a real animal.

“Dean!” Sam yells, his hands cupped as a makeshift megaphone. 

He stops and waits, trying to distinguish all the noises coming from the woods, the birds chirping, the wind agitating the leaves and tall grass, the background noise of the highway a couple of miles away, which is really subtle but there. Sam concentrates on what’s happening on the ground, all around him; all the tiny sounds of what’s invisible to the eyes if you don’t pay attention, like a squirrel running with his mouth full of acorns, a tiny butterfly flying through leaves, and then…

He catches something. Quick, light footsteps, but it’s vague, and also far. Sam walks around Dean’s private bush and sees the trail he’s left. It’s early, the long grass and ferns are still wet with dew. It doesn’t take long for Sam to figure out what happened –he’s a freaking hunter, after all. A corridor of crushed grass is coming from the left to stop suddenly near the bushes, then the trail, uneven and zig-zagging, is going straight into the wood, following the old trail that’s still there. At some point it splits in two, one smaller than the other, then seems to disappear completely. Not for long. It’s then even easier to follow because it joins the principal trail.

Sam sees the two sets of footprints in the drying mud, the first ones easily identifiable as Dean’s, with their blurriness –fennec foxes have the peculiarity of growing thick fur under their feet to protect them from the burning soil of their natural habitat. The other prints aren’t that larger, maybe of the size of a tall dog, like a golden retriever or a Labrador. Sam has no idea what kind of animals are roaming in the area –hell, maybe it is a dog that’s been abandoned, or has decided that morning to leave his backyard and explore around, finding the perfect cat-like animal to chase. Whatever it is, the chase gives the impression that it’s been quick and fast, not like two buds playing catch-me-if-you-can on that sunny morning.

Sam might have been following the trail for a mile or so when the noises get louder. There is some growling –too loud and low to be coming from Dean- and a scratching noise that he can’t really identify. Sam runs faster. The growl doesn’t seem to come from a dog, and it worries him. It’s not completely unknown. Sam has definitely heard it before. It’s…

Sam sees the beast before he can identify the growl. It’s a bobcat -a young one, given his stature, but it could easily kill an animal of Dean’s size.

The scratching noise Sam was hearing is Dean’s claws scratching at a tree. He’s trying to climb it, grabbing the lowest branch with his upper paws and pushing himself up with the rear ones, but he keeps falling back. And there is blood dripping on the tree’s trunk. Lots of blood for something so small. It comes from Dean’s left flank.

The bobcat roars and jump, catching Dean’s tail between its teeth, tearing Sam out of his immobility at the same time. He yells, and throws himself at the beast, feeling it wiggling furiously underneath him, growling, trying to escape. Sam doesn’t hold him back, he knows the bobcat is trying to get away, but he gives him the first push, just to be sure. 

He waits until he sees the feline disappearing through the woods, far enough that it doesn’t represent a menace anymore.

Still on the ground, rearing up on his knees, Sam turns back toward Dean, finally ready to give him all of his attention.

The scene is pitiful. Dean has fallen from the trunk and is curled in on himself, licking the large puncture wounds on his flank, letting out what sounds like puppy cries. His whole body is shaking, covered in dirt, leaves, and blood. A large tuft of fur is missing from his tail and when he lifts his eyes to look at Sam, the fear has blown the pupils, giving them a dark, wet aspect.

“Oh, fuck, Dean, let me…”

Sam stretches a hand toward him, slowly. He doesn’t know which mental state Dean is right now, but he doubts the human part of his mind is the one dominating at the moment.

Dean tenses and stops licking his wound, showing his teeth at Sam.

“Hey, dude, it’s me. Let me help you,” Sam tries again.

Something shifts in the fennec’s expression. He tries to stand up, but his back left leg doesn’t support him, and he falls to the side.

This time, he's gathered up in Sam’s arms. 

Without letting go of him, Sam manages to pull out his light cotton vest, then wraps the still shaking body in it, being careful not to press on the wounds. Sam is no veterinarian, but a mammal is still a mammal, and a fennec is hot-blooded mammal, so there is little doubt that Dean is going into shock. The blood loss is hard to evaluate. Sam prefers imagining everything worse than it really is. Better being pleasantly surprised than the opposite. He makes his way back, murmuring reassuring words to Dean who has started crying again, walking fast but not running. The blood isn’t staining the vest, but Sam prefers not to shake Dean too much by running.

In the bunker, Sam walks Dean to his own room and get him settled on the bed. Dean is calmer now. He seems to understand when Sam explains to him what he’s going to do next by the way he holds his head, slightly tilted to the right, and remaining immobile when Sam leaves the room. Strange, how Dean’s actions remind Sam of the numerous times he did exactly the same for his wounded brother. Grabbing everything he needs from the large first aid kit, he keeps thinking of those times. How he’s become an expert in sewing wounds, in knowing which kind of antibiotic to use, in reading the signs of a concussion or an internal bleeding. Hell, both Dean and he can now work an intravenous drip, which is the perfect example of how fucked up their lives are, even more so that it all seem so… normal. Sam is about to take care of the wounds of his brother, who’s a fennec with a magical stone embedded on his forehead. Must be Thursday.

The trick is the dosage. Sam doesn’t want to kill his brother with too many painkillers and antibiotics. He covers the wounds that have stop bleeding with a clean washcloth and gets his laptop to calculate how many milligrams of codeine he can give his brother, and how much penicillin he can take without it being toxic. It’s not that complicated, once he’s figured that Dean weights the same as a three or four week old baby and succeeds in breaking into a medical website reserved for professionals. He does the conversions while Dean drinks water from a bowl Sam has brought him. It’s important to replace the fluid loss.

Sam crushes the codeine with some apple sauce, and Dean licks the spoon willingly. It’s not long before Sam sees the effect of the drug taking its toll on the fennec who lies on his side, completely relaxed. For a moment, Sam is scared of having miscalculated the dosage, but Dean stays awake, and his eyes follow Sam’s voice. Trying to describe, even to himself, what a fennec high on painkiller looks like is difficult. It’s just… funny. Dean keeps letting his tongue slip out of his mouth as if it doesn’t belong to him. He blinks slowly, his ears are moving like they are two smaller animals, and he keeps letting out high pitched cries like an excited puppy every other second. 

“God, man, I can’t believe I’m not filming you,” Sam sighs, preparing the sewing kit.

Dean expresses how little he cares by trying to lick his nose with his tongue. Turns out he can. Sam burst out laughing.

“Okay now, you know the drill. Don’t move, I’ll be quick, I promise. Little to no scarring.”

This is something Sam always says before sewing Dean back together, maybe for good luck, or maybe it’s just part of the ritual. It doesn’t make sense right now, though, because god knows what will happen to the sewed wounds once Dean has shifted back.

There are three punctures on the flank close to the left thigh. Sam has to shave the fur first, then he pours saline solution over the triangular holes, cleaning them and realizing that they are not as deep as he had first thought. Dean has started to tense, but for now, the codeine seems to be working. His head is turned toward Sam, and his eyes are rolling in their sockets, as if he has trouble focusing, which… he probably does.

Two stitches per wound will be enough, and Sam makes quick work of closing the lacerations. Dean mewls a couple of times but takes it extremely well. It’s no different than when he’s in his human form –he’ll bitch and curse at Sam, but they both know it’s just for show. It’s what Dean is supposed to be. Annoying.

Once the sewing is done, Sam chooses to work with the liquid Band-Aid because he knows no tape will stick on to Dean's fur, unless he shaves a larger area. The liquid Band-Aid isn’t ideal, but it does contain an antiseptic. Better than nothing anyway. 

After that, all that’s left for Sam to do is crush half a penicillin pill in apple sauce and give it to Dean. By the time he needs to swallow it, the fennec is fighting sleep, and quickly losing his battle. He licks the apple sauce lazily and yawns, his tongue slapping back inside doing that funny noise hitting his palate. Sam pats his head. “All done; you did good.” He almost adds “Buddy.” Closes his mouth just in time.

Sam cleans up everything. Dean isn’t interested in what he’s doing anymore. He nods on the bed, looking exhausted. Sam figures he can leave him be and come back to see him later. He could use a coffee. Now that everything is done and under control, the thought hits him, of what could have happened. It’s not hard to imagine arriving a few minutes later and finding the torn up body of his brother between the bobcat’s teeth. After everything, god, how could Sam possibly have accepted such an absurd death? 

His hand shakes as he fills the coffeemaker. Dean and him. Him and Dean. It’s been clear to Sam for quite some time that he wouldn’t survive without Dean. It troubles him, because he can’t understand if it's that he wouldn’t be _able to,_ or if he just wouldn’t _want to_. Different motives, same results, though. Sam would set the world ablaze to keep Dean by his side –hell, he _already had._ It’s one thing to process, intellectually, that Dean’s death compared to millions shouldn’t even be a dilemma, or a choice to make. Putting Sam in that situation, though, will always have the same results. He’ll save Dean. For himself, as well as for his brother. For all his cruel denials about being like Dean, not wanting to go on like that, saving each other and damning each other at the same time, Sam _is_ like his brother. 

Sam doesn’t think there is a differentiation to make now anyway. It’s not Sam, then Dean. It’s Sam and Dean, always, never one without the other. And maybe it’s because of everything they've been through, maybe it’s about getting older… but most probably, it’s only because Sam has taken way more time than Dean to realize it. Because it’s always been that way.

Lost in his thoughts, Sam doesn’t hear Dean coming until he sees him entering the kitchen, walking nimbly on three legs like he’s always done it that way. 

“Ah, come on, Dean, why didn’t you stay in bed? You’re going to tear your stitches.”

Dean just sits at Sam’s feet and looks at him, his eyes still blurry from the codeine. He doesn’t want to be left alone. It’s as simple as that.

“Okay, well, wanna watch some tv?” Sam asks. 

Dean turns back, ready to walk to the library, where they have installed a living room corner some time ago. 

“Nope, no walking,” Sam objects, bending down to take the fennec in his arms. “I’m carrying you until tomorrow, at least.”

Dean doesn’t try to break free. Instead, he licks Sam’s hand softly. 

::: :::

The three following days, Dean doesn’t leave Sam’s side. It’s clear he’s been shaken by the bobcat incident. As soon as Sam sits somewhere, there is Dean, settling himself on his lap, or at least as close to him as possible. Purring, or licking his hand softly. He sometimes climbs Sam’s chest and nudges his muzzle in the crook of Sam’s neck, falling asleep like that, purring as loudly as he snores in his human form. Maybe he’s feeling the need to comfort himself since the bobcat’s attack, or maybe Dean just wants to enjoy the proximity while he still can. It will be so easy to pretend he doesn’t remember, or that his animal side had been forcing him to do so. After all, Dean has always been a tactile kind of guy, even though the way they were raised was far from encouraging it. Sam thinks about all those times he’s been in danger, how much closer to him Dean was standing in the following hours –even days, and when he’d found him hurt, Dean would always grab his neck, even caress his hair. 

And Sam? He’s more than okay with it. It’s not just the nice feeling of running his fingers through warm, soft fur, the thought that this fennec is in fact his brother never leaves his mind. It’s so simple like this. Touching for reassurance. Touching just because they can. It’s not sexual, of course, but the fierce love Sam has for his brother –which, he doesn’t doubt one second, is the same for Dean, or maybe even more… Well, that love passes through each touch. Before that, Sam had never realized how much power a simple touch could have, whether it is to sooth or reassure or just to say 'hey, you’re not alone…' It might seem stupid, but they are two grown men, hunters, and they’re not supposed to touch each other in any other way than the manly pat on the back –and not too often, please. Women are lucky that way. Sam remembers how Jess and her best friend were always touching each other, showing their affection without any false shame. 

Two weeks of being able to do just that is a gift –okay, that gift came in the strangest circumstances possible, but still. Sam is going to miss it. 

::: :::

The day of the metamorphosis, Sam feels prepared. According to the file, the shifting back happens exactly twenty days later, which means Dean should shift around eleven o’clock in the evening, give or take. Sam has chosen one of the storage rooms that has been cleaned earlier that year. He would’ve picked Dean’s room, but he remembers the huge amount of energy released by the metamorphosis, and he’s sure Dean wouldn’t appreciate coming back to himself in a devastated room –even one of his treasured records broken would be one too many. The storage room is still close to the kitchen, so it’s warm enough, and there is a bathroom at the end of the hallway. Sam has settled a couple of mattresses, some blankets, a clean change of comfortable clothes, depending if Dean wants a shower immediately or is too tired, and bottled water. He has, of course, chosen a curse box and some protection for himself so he’s not at risk of being hit by the stone. He adds a couple of chairs as an afterthought, since the room is completely empty.

At breakfast, he reminds Dean of what is going to happen, explaining it step by step like he’s suddenly speaking to a four year old. Dean huffs at him in a very non-fennec way and turns his back at him to finish lapping his oatmeal. 

He can circulate by himself now, with an almost imperceptible limp on his left side. The stitches are clean, no sign of swelling or redness that would indicate an infection. Sam is curious to see what will happen to the wounds once the metamorphosis is over.

Still ignoring Sam, Dean walks out of the kitchen, the noise of his claws on the wooden floor making that now familiar clicking sound. Dean knows anyway. He’s nervous, has been ever since he had woken up. It’s only getting worst as the day goes by, Dean acting way more human-like than he has in the past… ten days or so. He’s agitated, can’t seem to stay immobile for more than half an hour at a time. He doesn’t follow Sam around and make sure to manifest his irritation each time Sam is checking on him.

It’s a long day.

It a little bit past ten when Sam suggest they move to the storage room, just in case he got the hour wrong. He knows he didn’t, but a curse can be either precise as a clock or vague and unreliable. Sam, as always, prefers to be prepared.

He takes his laptop with him and sits on the mattress, putting up an old western he had downloaded before. At first, all Dean does is walks in circle around the room, stopping to sniff the floor here and there, but he’s drawn by the movie and finally settles down next to Sam, just like Sam had hoped he would. He’s surprised to find his brother falling asleep around ten thirty, but then again, Dean, as a fennec, has been taken long naps throughout the days of his change, and Sam is certain he hasn’t even tried today. Maybe it’s for the best. If Dean can remain asleep until the shifting happens, it will spare him the long stressful last minutes, waiting for it.

 

Eleven pm is approaching. Sam closes his laptop and gets up from the mattress, careful not to wake Dean who, miraculously, is still sleeping soundly. Besides, Sam is kind of glad his brother won’t witness his own little metamorphosis. What an irony it would be if the gem, during the shifting, would fly through the room and hit Sam? He never liked irony. Has never even been sure he really understands the meaning of the word (he tends to mix it up with sarcasm). 

Irony or sarcasm or freaking karma won’t happen tonight, though. Even if Sam hasn’t read anything about the gem being propelled away during the shifting –it’s barely mentioned that it was found near the person after the metamorphosis was completed- he won’t take any risk. He pulls his sock over the rim of his pants, then does the same thing with the long-sleeve gardening gloves he’s found in the garage. He wears a Henley, because a button down leaves small places between the buttons –okay, that is a little farfetched, he can at least admit it to himself, but it is a cursed object he’s dealing with. That’s why the next step is to tie his hair, then slip a balaclava over his head. He finishes the strange outfit with a scarf to cover his neck. He found it in one of the rooms and has no idea where it came from –it’s turquoise, with tiny decorative beads, but it does the job. There is no way his human-shaped brother will wake up, confused, to find out he’s trapped in a room with a hyena, or a warthog (why is Sam only thinking about The Lion King’s characters anyway?) Sam still makes a mental note not to forget to at least take the balaclava off, because he’s not sure Dean would have a much better reaction facing a masked giant wearing a fancy scarf. 

Sam’s thoughts are whirling into his head like that, going to the strangest places, without him able to clear his mind. He’s awfully nervous. What if nothing happens? It would be so Winchester-y to be trapped by the curse of a magical stone that had caused no problems to other people before.

_Okay, enough. Sam takes a deep breath, then, look down at the sleeping tiny animal resting at his feet. It shouldn’t be l-_

It has already started. Sam has managed to miss the beginning of the metamorphosis, too preoccupied to imagine impossible scenarios. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there… Like an electric current is surrounding Dean, invisible to the eyes, but Sam is sure that he would feel a light static shock if he were to touch his brother right now.

Not only that, but there's a new pressure building in the room, and there are also noises echoing around them, a sort of buzz that swells in intensity, slowly but surely. For the time being, Dean hasn’t moved, his fennec body still curled in on himself, a subtle purr escaping his chest. Sam takes a step back, then another, and another one. The curse box he retrieved from the library is on the floor, right behind him. Sam would feel better with it in his hands. He knows the stone isn’t supposed to have any effects if it isn’t touch by bare skin, but why take the risk?

It takes less than two second for Sam to turn back and grab the box, but when he looks back at Dean, it’s just in time to see the same red blinding light exploding behind his eyes. The whole room vibrates now, so intensively Sam feels it in his teeth. He finds himself plastered against the wall, pushed back by a violent wave of energy.

Then everything stops. For a few seconds, all Sam can see are the black spots wavering in front of his eyes, the optical imprint of the flash of light. He takes off his balaclava and rubs at them, thinking that the room is way too silent for his liking. 

His vision comes back, even though his eyes hurt, like when you spend too much time forcing them in a given position. Sam can finally see the form immobile on the mattress. 

And it’s not a fennec. It’s the very recognizable body of his brother, shaking all over. Dean is lying down on his side, his legs bent and pulled up toward his body, his eyes closed shut. He’s grimacing. His skin is covered in goosebumps. 

Sam locates the African Shifting Gem immediately, a feet away from Dean, looking so innocent it could have been a simple pebble carried here in the indentation of a boot’s sole and then shaken loose and fallen to the ground. Sam crouches and grabs it with the pair of tweezers he had put into the curse box –again, better safe than sorry. Then, the box is shut down and put away. Sam can turn his attention to Dean. He starts by covering his brother's naked body with the blankets, then shakes him lightly, holding him by the shoulder and calling his name.

Dean doesn’t show any signs that he actually heard him, but when Sam shakes him with more vigor he pushes Sam's hand back and groans.

“Dean, you with me?”

“Yeah, m’with you, stop yelling at me,” Dean murmurs. 

This is grumpy, post-concussion or hang-over Dean, which is exactly what Sam was hoping to get.

“You’re not a fennec anymore,” he says, sounding a bit stupid of stating the obvious.

“No shit,” Dean replies, his voice already steadier. He blinks and cracks an eye open, staring dully at Sam for a long second. “Nice scarf,” he adds, and a barely-there smile appears on his lips.

“Fuck you,” Sam replies, taking the thing off from around his neck.

Of course, he would forget about the scarf.

::: :::

The wounds on Dean's flank have shifted into three tiny scars. Sam will find small bits of sewing thread stuck in one of the blanket later on. He’s satisfied and relieved by the magical cure. It’s been hanging at the back of his mind, the vague fear that the bobcat wounds would get worse.

That’s one preoccupation he can let go.

Dean is still lying on his side as Sam studies the wounds. He still got the shakes, which is not surprising given what his body just went through and the fever that’s supposed to affect him. Sam asks him a couple of question and, although Dean’s answers take some time to come, the potential confusion isn’t present, for now. He sits up with Sam’s help and downs a whole bottle of water before asking if Sam would be “kind enough to stop staring at his ass and help him get dressed.”

They succeed, with some effort. Dean admits he’s not sure he has enough energy to take a shower, that what seems really dreamy right now is the memory foam mattress of his bed. He’s still grimacing from time to time. Sam wonders out loud if he hurts, and Dean frowns, dragging the blanket over his now t-shirt covered shoulders.

“It’s… no. M’sore, but it’s more than that like… Like I’m wearing an all new skin and I gotta stretch it out.”

“Wow.” Sam is always impressed by the way Dean can explain complex stuff using the strangest metaphors that make everything so easy to understand. 

“I… I can still feel like… The shadow of the freaking tail? Like I know it’s not there but my brain wants it to move nevertheless.”

“I suppose it will be a couple of days before you really feel like yourself again.”

Dean nods and wipes a hand over his face. He needs to sleep, no doubt about it. Sam suggests helping him to his room, which is accepted without resistance. Dean can actually hold himself up on his feet pretty well, but Sam keeps an arm wrapped around his waist. Again, there is no resistance –on the contrary, Dean sighs and leans against Sam, like there is no place in the world he’d rather be. Must be the fever, or the still somewhat present fennec part still holding on to Dean.

So far, still no confusion. Settle in his bed on his belly, Dean is willing to answer some of Sam’s questions before he falls asleep. He remembers everything, although some days are a little blurry. He remembers the bobcat attack and explains to Sam the animal instinct that had kicked in. His voice is already slower, lower, like he’s five second away from falling asleep. “I was… I was in the bush and suddenly, before I heard, or smelled or saw anything out of the ordinary, there was this huge surge of adrenaline that got my blood pumping, and it was like a flashing sign saying danger had appeared in my mind. You know, how sometimes we’ll walk into a room during a hunt and we can just feel something isn’t right. It was a bit like that, but a thousand times stronger. Man, we would be better hunters if we’d kept more of that survival instinct, ‘cause it makes a hell of a difference when you’re an animal, let me tell you.”

Dean yawns loudly and grabs his pillow, shoving his head underneath it. “Now lemme sleep,” he mumbles, his voice muffled. “Then, I’mma kick your ass for dragging me into your fucking stone hunting.

“Alright,” Sam agrees.

He’s getting out easily. He had expected a conversation scattered with a lot of “damn it, Sam” and “son of a bitches”. Then, maybe some brooding. 

Well, Sam thinks, getting out of the room. There will still be time for that. 

::: :::

Sam doesn’t sleep a lot that night. The first time he wakes up, it’s to the sound of his brother, barking. 

Not a fennec, mind you. Dean producing a noise that can only compare to a bark. It goes on and on. Sam runs to his room and catches him on his bed, sitting on his heels. Both of his arms are stretched and his hands planted firmly on the mattress. Still barking. His eyes have that empty quality to them that reminds Sam of someone heavily drugged or maybe sleepwalking.

He’s frozen in place, not quite sure of what to do, when Dean tilts his head, another familiar fennec movement, and looks at him, really looks at him.

Sam isn’t prepare when his six feet worth of muscle older brother runs towards him on four legs and jumps at him, trying to climb, just like he did when he’d been a cat-sized animal. He even looks happy and excited, as if Sam had gone out to run some errands for a few hours and just came back –fennec Dean didn’t like to be left alone.

What happens next, though, is pretty predictable. Even if Sam tries to free himself while he yells at Dean to stop, the battle is lost, and he falls backward, landing on his back with his brother crushing his lungs. For a few seconds, Sam’s lungs are refusing to let in any air. He pushes Dean to the side and swallows a mouthful of burning oxygen. 

“Fuck, Dean,” he lets out in a strangled voice.

“Sam?”

Dean is staring back at him. It’s clear he has no idea what the hell is going on. The confusion and the fever are taking their toll on him.

“What?...” Dean asks, but then closes his mouth. He just doesn’t know what to ask.

“You… Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees easily. 

After a confusing moment of untangling their limbs from each other, Sam and Dean are up. Without waiting for him, Dean stumbles more than walks and lets himself fall on his bed. He’s still silent and pliant when Sam takes his temperature –the fever is there, but barely- and offers him a couple of Tylenols and some water. Satisfied, Sam goes back to bed. Dean is snoring before he even leaves the room.

The second time Sam wakes up, he can’t really tell why. The bunker is quiet. Too quiet is a cliché Sam would do without for the time being, but it is what it is.

Dean isn’t in his room. Dean doesn’t seem to be anywhere. Sam’s panic is growing with each silence that respond to him calling his brother name, but then, the solution appears to him. He curses himself for his brain too close to sleep to work properly.

The garage.

Sam is certain he’s going to find Dean near the Impala –maybe even sitting in it. 

But oh –no. Dean is trapped. All Sam can see is his lower body, down from his hips, caught in the air duct he used to get through for the use of his fennec bathroom.

Sam walks closer -just to be sure, you know, he isn’t imagining that.

“Dean?” He calls, and immediately, the legs starts to wiggle.

Sam doesn’t know if barks or mewls will answer him. 

“Sam?”

Okay, Dean’s voice works better.

“Dean what are you doing there?” Sam whispers, wondering at the same time why he speaks so quietly. They’re alone. Maybe the situation is so ridiculous he doesn’t dare to speak about it aloud.

“I don’t know, I woke up to go to the bathroom and next thing I knew, I’m stuck there,” Dean grunts, still wiggling his hips and legs “I swear to god, Sam, if you laugh at me I’m gonna-“

Sam doesn’t hear the rest of those empty menaces. He’s going through the door, figuring it will be easier to speak with Dean.

The night is clear, getting that lighter blue tint announcing the sun is starting to rise, so it’s easy for Sam to see how completely mortified Dean looks. Something twists inside of him. This is everything but funny. He forced Dean to hunt a cursed object, then witnessed him living as a cute, tiny ball of fur for twenty days, and now, the poor guy has to be caught in the most improbable position ever. Guilt crawls on Sam’s chest and presses on it, hard.

“It’s normal, Dean, to still show some animal behaviors after the curse. I’m sorry, man. We’ll get you out of this.”

“How?” Dean seems desperate, and his voice is shaking, as if he’s about to cry. “I couldn’t even call you; my chest is all compressed. Damn it, Sam, what the hell?”

Sam pats the top of Dean’s head with his hand in what he hopes is a comforting but not pitiful gesture. An idea pops into his mind. “Hey, do you remember waking up earlier?”

Dean’s eyes shot wide open. “No! Why? What did I do? Sam-”

“You… didn’t. I was just wondering if you were sleeping well, with the shifting and all,” Sam says quickly. Dean is about to reply so he just keeps going. “Okay I think it’ll be easier to get your hips and legs through than to get your shoulders to go through once more. I’ll get some cooking oil.”

It takes almost an hour, a lot of dragging and pushing, ten times more cursing words and insults, but in the end, Dean is free, stripped down to his boxers and covered in vegetable oil. Also: not in a good mood. When Sam asks him if he needs help in the shower, for one second, he’s sure he’s going to get punched in the face. 

He still waits right outside the bathroom door. Just in case.

Dean is all himself when he’s ready to get back to bed. He takes some Tylenols for the fever and once again refuses to let Sam stay and keep watch. It’s five in the morning. Sam knows he won’t get back to sleep. He also knows he’s in no mood to find Dean in another compromising position, so he grabs a sleeping bag, wraps himself in it and sits next to Dean’s door with his laptop. 

Surprisingly, he falls asleep. He barely has the time to think he’s going to ache everywhere before giving up.

When he wakes up, he does. He’s still sitting, his head must have fallen forward if the tension in his neck is any indication. Also, he’s not alone.

Dean is sleeping on the floor, curled into a ball, one of his hand resting on Sam’s thighs. He smiles, then wonders how the hell he’ll get up without waking Dean up. He has the feeling his brother might not find the situation as adorable as he himself does.

::: :::

It won’t be the first time something that strange has happened to Sam and Dean –swapping body with a teenager, or having your sandwich oozing grey goo at you are barely the tip of the iceberg. Nothing getting in the way of hunting holds them back for long. Sam thinks their capacity for adaptation is one of their greatest qualities, but then again, they both had learned, very early on, that they had no choice but to adapt or become crazy –maybe a little bit of both?

Life does go on as normally as it gets when you’re a Winchester. After that first night following his shifting back, Dean is back to his good old self. He’s a couple of pounds lighter and spends the following days eating like he has been starving for two weeks but he’s himself. He’s ready to hunt.

He had warned Sam that there could be no mention of the adorableness of the tiny fox he’d been, or any embarrassing thing he did when he’d been curse. With the menace of Dean getting the gem and rubbing it all over Sam’s face during his sleep, Sam has agreed. Dean would be capable of doing just that.

The African sorcerer’s stone episode is closed, then. Surely, there is an upcoming apocalypse waiting in the shadows that will make Sam regret those quiet three weeks. He’s glad to have Dean back. He can’t deny, though, that he misses the fennec he’d spend so many hours taking care of. It gets to a point where Sam wonders if he should get a pet. He’s an adult, he can damn well do as he please. Cats are out of the question, since Dean is allergic to them. And as for dogs, Dean never liked them. It had gotten worse after he’d been torn apart by them in their hellish form. Sam can’t blame him. He won’t impose a dog on Dean just to satisfy a sudden desire to run his fingers through fur again. Any other choice would be a bad idea. Sam could buy a bunny, or a ferret, but then you can’t really interact with them as you do with a dog, and he would have to leave his pet alone in the bunker for long periods of time. Only a dog would have been a good companion for the Impala –if Dean would ever allow it.

Sam drops the idea. Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t get the chance to be cuddled from time to time. 

See… Stating that everything is back to normal isn’t entirely true. Dean is Dean, that’s a fact, but he might have kept an animal trait or two. It’s not like he doesn’t know it. Dean is aware, and not quite happy about the fact that he sometimes feels the need to show his teeth to someone that’s menacing, or that he likes, from time to time, to go for a run in the woods. Not a normal run, he complains to Sam. “It’s like I want to jump and run and turn left and right at the same time. You know, like when you’re a kid and it’s more of a game than exercise. And it’s… I can’t stop until I’m completely spent. And whenever it happens I feel like, super happy,” Dean admits with a grimace of disgust. 

Which brings Sam to the animal trait he likes the most. It’s not even an animal trait, it’s human, it’s at the core of all living things' need for comfort and security.

First time it happens, it’s maybe four days after Dean is back to his normal form. They'd had a rough day, learning the death of a hunter they’ve worked with a couple of times before. They hadn’t been close to Clint Smith, but he’s one of the few hunters from their dad’s contact channel that was still alive, and it brings back a lot of bad memories. 

Sam tries to bury himself in research, while Dean gets slightly drunk and goes to bed early. 

After another hour, Sam decides to follow his brother’s lead and goes to bed too, allowing himself a finger of whiskey to ease the way to the oblivion comfort of sleep. It works quickly. What wakes him up in the middle of the night, he can’t really say, just the feeling of something… unusual. 

He’s not alone in bed anymore. Dean is sleeping next to him, wrapped in his own blanket Sam recognize from his room. He doesn’t touch Sam, except for one of his legs, stretched to the side in a way it brushes against Sam’s hip.

Sam looks at him for a long time. They hadn’t talk about Dean the fennec sleeping and cuddling up to Sam at night –Sam was wise enough not to bring it up, knowing that Dean would never discuss it. Now this… he doesn’t quite know what to think, or do.

In the end, Sam decides not to do anything and goes back to sleep to the rhythm of Dean’s slow breathing, a lullaby from his childhood that had followed him in adulthood, after all that time spent in motel rooms.

In the morning, Dean isn’t there when Sam wakes up. They don’t talk about it.

It happens two more times in the following month, always after a tough day, or a tough hunt. Sam doesn’t mind. It is comforting, after all, and he finds out he always sleeps better on those night.

Then, the fourth time, it’s not home, at the bunker, but in a motel room somewhere in Montana, on their way back home after a werewolf hunt that had almost been the end of Sam. He could feel the wolf’s teeth on the skin of his neck when Dean had saved his ass. Dean had thought he was too late. He had grabbed Sam in panic to examine him. Sam had seen the fear eating at him in his eyes, and had hated himself for making Dean so upset.

He can’t really sleep, keeps reliving his encounter with the werewolf in his head, and how he should have acted to avoid almost losing his life, or being transformed.

Dean, in the bed next to him, isn’t sleeping either. Sam can tell by the rhythm of his breathing.

In the darkness, he watches as Dean stands up slowly, wrapping himself in his sheet. He walks the two step that separates their beds and lies down on Sam’s, so close to the edge it’s a miracle he doesn’t fall on the floor. He’s on his back, his arms crossed under his head.

“We’re talking about this,” he says softly, his voice shaking a little.

“Okay.” Sam is careful not to look straight at him. To do so would make things too difficult for Dean. It always is when he talks about personal stuff.

“I know you know it’s not the first time I’ve done this. Thanks for… not bringing it up.”

“I know better now than to speak with you about something you’re not ready to discuss.”

“Anyway,” Dean goes on with a little more assurance in his voice. “It’s… the fennec thing. Hard to explain, but… we -humans, I mean- we got our basic instincts buried under everything else because we think we’re so intelligent. We prefer using what we learn, and what we know, than to rely on instinct, and I suppose it comes with evolution, some philosophical shit like that.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

Sam loves when Dean doesn’t pretend he’s not at least as smart as him. Of course, it always comes with a dose of self-deprecation from Dean’s part, so he hides it behind a few curses.

“So, when I was that little fox, I was still myself, but I was the animal as well. It was messed up. ‘Cause animals, they trust their instinct, so I had to fight it. And then at some point I just let go. I was so damn small, and the fear, it was always roaming back in my mind. Always telling me that I had to be safe. You were that safety. At night, I couldn’t sleep at all if I wasn’t close to you. I would just wait and stay alert, because my instincts were telling me to watch out for any danger. So, that’s why I found myself in your bed. The fear would go away, and the feeling of safety, it was like I was high on some powerful drug. Felt so good, to be able to just relax and sleep. You were my wall against any danger.”

“Wow. I wish you would let me write about your experience in the file. I don’t think neither Anthony nor Croft have explained it that way.”

Dean snorts. “In your dreams. Anyway, I’m myself again, and I know I don’t need the protection of someone, I know that I’m safe, because I can take care of myself, and I do whatever is needed to be safe. But…” Dean sights and is silent for a few seconds. “But it’s like being an animal has left an indelible trace in my brain. My instincts, they are stronger –or they’re more present, I don’t know. S’not a bad thing, and maybe it will go away after some time. I just… It still feels right. And good. To be close to you.”

“Okay,” Sam agrees. It does feel good, after all.

“Now don’t go thinking I’m some weirdo who likes to share his lil’ brother’s bed,” Dean warns, settling more comfortably. 

Sam doesn’t say that it’s basically what he’s doing.

“When it’s hard to go to sleep, and everything starts spinning in my head, every fucking nightmare and tragedy we’ve been through, I need it. And to be honest, I don’t see why I would deny it. We got nothing, Sam. We’re two hunters that are feared by monsters and other hunters, ‘cause of everything we’ve done, everything we’ve been through. I’m going to be forty soon, and I don’t want to deny myself some basic need, like comfort. Not anymore. I think I deserve it.”

“You do,” Sam agrees simply.

“Does it bother you?”

“It doesn’t.”

Dean gives a tiny grunt of relief. He shifts until he’s lying on his belly, his head turned toward Sam but his eyes already closed. 

Sam doesn’t add anything. He doesn’t need to. He’s a grown ass man, he’s a weirdo, just as Dean is. They’re alone in the world –hell, in the whole universe, all they have is each other. 

Shifting to his side, Sam wraps an arm around Dean’s waist. Yeah, that’s better. Feeling the warmth of Dean, his back moving softly with each breath. Why would Sam deny himself?

“Sissy,” Dean whispers in an already sleeping voice.

Sam smiles.

_A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed that slice of sweetness. Sometimes that’s all a fangirl going through a tough time feels like writing. A little detail in that story needs clarification –at least, that’s what my crazy brain demand. I established, in this story, that Dean doesn’t like dogs, is even afraid of them, which was, IMO, canon after he’d got ripped apart by a hellhound. Dean is just not a dog person. If he’s going to watch over anything, it’s Sam. Now, I know that the show tried to have Dean appreciate dogs, with two different episodes, first in 8x15: **man’s best friend with benefits** , which I consider one of the worse episodes of the show, written, of course, by the Buckner-Lemming duo. Second, in 9x05, **dog dean afternoon** , another episode I deeply dislike, mostly because the way they treated what animal were thinking out loud is ridiculous and poorly done, instead of funny. So. Long story short, those episodes just don’t exist in my head canon and Dean still isn’t a dog person._

_As far as fennec foxes go, if you haven't been able to watch youtube clips, I tried to depicts it as realistically as possible. The most amazing trait, imo, is the way it expresses itself. A fennec can produce a wide variety of sounds, going from whimpering like a human baby to bark like a dog. Like just his appearance wasn't adorable enough already. ;-)_


End file.
